


Casterfo: Another Story

by Althea_Draxus



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Bloodline - Claudia Gray
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 13:52:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15996536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Althea_Draxus/pseuds/Althea_Draxus
Summary: After the events of Bloodline, Ransolm Casterfo is dead, sentenced to capital punishment on his homeworld of Riosa. Not too long after, a man known for his love for capes and cloaks appeared on Zeltros. His name was Ral Octhar. Or at least, that's what most people refer to him as nowadays...Set post-Bloodline and post-TLJ. Multiple chapters.





	Casterfo: Another Story

**Author's Note:**

> A note of love for the best character in Claudia Grey's novel, Bloodline: Senator Ransolm Casterfo of Riosa, with his fantastic wardrobe.

On Zeltros, everyday was a holiday.

Well, not exactly. But its inhabitants made it a point to make each day feel like one. It made the prospect of work much more bearable, even if it entailed something as time-consuming and tedious as hand embroidery or tambour beading. Such painstaking routines become play with flirtatious banter, bursts of dance-offs, and all-round gossip chatter. In a sizeable group, it was as good as a party.

At Atelier Octhar, at least twenty-five 'small hands' worked on a piece at any one time. It was a small couture house focusing on cloaks and capes, located in a four-storey building in the less polluted, more metropolitan area of the city of Qrys. The 'main hands' were usually selected on project basis, with each of them specialized in a particular aspect of dressmaking. 

But for something as special as the Northern Province governor's daughter's cloak for her wedding ceremony, nearly the whole crew was assigned to work on it, specialist or not.

That also meant close to seventy overly-eager, fresh Zeltron fashion graduates to reckon with, who at times got too carried away with their creativity at the expense of the agreed-upon design. Minor liberties were usually ignored, but today, they had cut through the imported taffeta and Fleureline weave specifically sent in by the bride herself. No one had wanted to claim responsibility for it, and things got too frustrating to the point that the lead couturier decided it was better for all of them to go home for the day. His 'small hands' were only too happy to oblige.

The lead couturier sighed as he placed his hand over a sensor to lock the doors to his atelier. He drew his velvet aquamarine cloak over his shoulders, checked his reflection in the windows, and began to make his way down the street towards the airtrain. He would have to find a way to either salvage the taffeta, or else he needed to come up with a very good explanation to give the future bride. But these worries, he could deal with tomorrow.

He almost smiled at the thought. Postponing worries was still something he was trying to get used to. Before Zeltros, it would have been unthinkable. In fact, worrying was pretty much his full-time job. There was always something to be concerned about, at times the same issue for weeks on end. But those were old stories, of a time that was now history, and when he went by another name. 

It was a name he loved dearly, and for years, carried proudly. However, as with many other things, he had to give it up when he was forced to leave his homeworld all those years ago. When he landed in Zeltros, he had came up with his new identity on the fly. It was meant to be something temporary. A convenient cover for him to cling to until he could decide what to do and how to live his newfound life. 

But over time, he grew comfortable being Ral Octhar. He started as an apprentice at a dressmaking store to learn the basics behind how his favourite piece of outerwear was created. Eventually, with the leftover Galactic credits gifted to him before he left his homeworld, he founded and became lead couturier of his namesake atelier. His clientele was the planet's style-conscious communities, whose flamboyant taste in fashion meant they were quickly drawn to custom capes and cloaks made of fine textile imports.

That, and he was also considered a very handsome male even by Zeltron standards, despite being human.

The airtrain pulled up at the platform fifteen minutes past schedule, a norm in Zeltros rather than the exception. The doors opened with a faint hiss, and Ral waited for the other passengers to alight before he boarded it. At this time of the day, the airtrains were relatively empty, making for a peaceful ride. Ral stood by the exit, watching impassively as the stations and sights blurred past him until the airtrain arrived at his stop.

He used to reside in one of the rooms above his atelier. But with a bigger team and an expanding clientele, he thought it apt to shift to another district altogether. He found a small apartment somewhere uptown that was walking distance from the airtrain. He chose to furnish it simply, falling back to similar layout and design as the ones he used in his old residences. Simple furniture, clean walls, a training room. The only difference was that there was no more Empire memorabilia adorning the corners of his room. 

But he had another memento which he recently acquired: a large abstract painting by a Gatalentan artist. It once hung on someone else's wall, and for the longest time, was presumed lost. It turned out that the painting was sold and shipped off-world just in time before the entire Hosnian star system was wiped out. 

Ral had missed the tragedy entirely back then, even though it was visible throughout the galaxy. He was cooped up in his atelier desperately finishing a cape for a Coruscant client, a male Neimoidian who insisted that glittery silver lycresh fabric was the most flattering for his skin tone. He only came to know of it when he got home and turned on the galactic news network. 

He remembered being frozen in his sofa as holovids of the Hosnian Cataclysm played on the network, from one news channel to another. Everything was gone. Erased. As if the system and everything found in it had never known existence. His thoughts went to the long corridors of the Senate building, and the faces behind each office door. The smiles and the scowls. That night, he couldn't sleep. It was also the one night that Zeltros, a perpetual party planet, fell silent.

Since then, news everywhere had been nothing but somber. Every other day, some Republican planet would be in an uproar because its Senate either expressed an intention to capitulate, or decided to outright capitulate to the First Order. 

Tonight was no different. 

Once again, he was tempted to turn the network off, but didn't. He had spent too much of his life being involved and invested in what went on in galactic politics. It drove him restless to be kept in the dark. No matter how bleak the fate of the Republic nowadays, he wanted to know. 

He needed to know. 

A knock came on his door. He frowned. He didn't recall expecting any guests.

At the same time, his holoscreen indicated that a communique had come in. It glowed red: confidential but urgent. He hadn't received a message of such importance for years. 

The knock came again, but louder this time. He hesitated between reading the communique and answering the door first. He settled for the latter. 

The security camera that he installed at his doorstep captured a familiar image. It had been some years, but he would recognize that regal posture anywhere. 

He almost ran to answer the door. 

True enough, she was standing before him. She looked like she always had, only older and more weary. Her hair had completely grayed; it no longer ran in a long braid down her back. She had it pinned up now. Fine lines had begun to set in her face. Even so, her eyes regained that mischievous twinkle upon seeing him. 

"It's been a while," she greeted him with a faint smile.

"Quite," he agreed, smiling back at her. "But nothing that can't be forgiven between old friends." He stepped aside and opened the door wider. "Come on in." 


End file.
